


Your Voice in My Head

by CaroltheQueen (always_1895)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective John Reese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8428312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_1895/pseuds/CaroltheQueen
Summary: At some point Finch's voice in John's ear had become his grounding constant, and, as is usually the case with these things, he didn't realise this until it stopped.
This is my first POI fic and I'm nervous as hell! I've fallen in love with these guys, and Bear! I was in love with Shaw within her first 5 mins onscreen. I'm starting season 3 now, but had to write this first. Hope I got them in character. Let me know?





	

At some point Finch's voice in John's ear had become his grounding constant, and, as is usually the case with these things, he didn't realise this until it stopped. When Root took Finch, the world became too quiet and too loud at the same time, and John felt like he'd been cut adrift; lost without that stream of consciousness that was Finch thinking out loud. He felt smarter sometimes for having that open link to Finch's extraordinary mind, having such quick and easy access to that intelligence, that knowledge, as if it had always been there in his mind. Finch was there with John every moment he was in the field, just as much as if he were there physically, and together they melded into one single synchronised, extremely effective entity.

If they had met under normal circumstances - perhaps when Finch was still just the silent partner in IFT, hard at work building the Machine, and when John was still just a soldier, yet to be drafted by the CIA - John wondered if they would have even spared each other a second glance. But Harold found him when he did, right in time to save John from himself, and yet too late to save Jessica. And now here they were, united by their grief for the people they'd lost, both betrayed by the people they should have been able to trust, burying themselves under false identities; running, running, running from their past mistakes until Finch found him and they started working towards making up for those mistakes. Two dead men saving one person at a time, trying to atone.

Maybe neither of them could remember their real names, and they both had good reasons for that, but John found himself wanting to be the John Reese that Finch believed was a good man. Despite knowing everything John had done, at least from the information available; every military record, every CIA case file, every mission where John had left a body to clean up. Despite all that, Finch still believed in him.

John of all people understood why Finch still kept his secrets. After all, the two people Finch had let himself be close to, let himself love, had been lost to him in the wake of the Machine. Because of what he'd built and the people who sought to control it, to keep it secret, everyone around him was in danger by association.

John didn't care. Hell, he'd been well on his way to throwing his life away anyway. He knew full well by now that he'd die for Harold and his cause if it meant the other man would live. And if the last thing he heard was Finch's voice, saying his name, "John," in that way that clearly showed just how redundant those boundaries between them were, well John would be okay with that.

John sometimes thought he could read Finch's voice a lot better than he could his face. He'd spent hours listening to the highs and lows of his tones, the subtle inflections that gave away his amusement, his interest, his panic, his concern. John could tell when Finch was tired or if his old injuries were paining him, even if he was trying not to show it. He was learning when to push his luck and when to back away when it came to invading Finch's personal boundaries, by the way Finch would say "Mr. Reese" like a warning or a hesitant opening.

When Finch was in trouble on the other end of their comm link everything ground to a halt and nothing else mattered. More than once he'd ignored a number in their presence because he was waiting on Finch's voice, heart in his throat, all of his protective instincts making his muscles tense even though he was too far away to do a damned thing. He wondered if it was like that for Finch, every time he had to sit helpless and listen to the sounds of fighting or gunfire from John's end. From the way Finch would urgently ask, "Mr. Reese, are you alright?" or sometimes fearfully, "John, are you there?" John thought that, yes, it probably was the same.

With Finch gone, John felt untethered to the world, like he was right back on the streets again, slowly drinking himself to death. Root had Finch, their trail was cold, and as John searched desperately, begging CCTV cameras in the middle of the street, demanding the Machine's help, he felt alone for the first time in a long while. Alone was how he worked, how he'd lived for more years than he could count. It never bothered him. But it was a shock to realise that when he felt it now, in Finch's absence, it _hurt_. It felt like being lost; absent a partner he'd learned to depend on, and who depended on him. And, oh, that hurt the most: he'd let Finch down. Root had had them both completely fooled, and by the time John came to his senses, his sixth sense, the voice in his head, was static.

And John was on the warpath to get that connection back.

But that voice had been there long enough that the echo of it remained. And as he searched, as he put together codes and cyphers and tracked the numbers, he was very aware of how very 'Finch' it all was; how he was following the patterns of his friend's way of thinking. Finch's voice, Finch's mind, was like a phantom limb torn away from John, and he could in turns feel like Finch was right _there_ , that he'd hear him any second, and then feel the aching absence of him.

The relief of finding him, of getting him back, was almost staggering, and John was almost sure that the adrenaline crash could've brought him to his knees if he wasn't already holding Harold up, drugged and only semi lucid.

Finch had made sure to catch his eye once John had entered the train station, and John had zeroed in on him easily, ready to approach at a subtle, cautious pace that wouldn't attract Root's attention; that wouldn't put Harold in danger. All that went to hell when Root made to shoot a cop, the shots ringing and echoing loudly. John saw Finch launch himself into her just as she pulled the trigger, an attempt to throw her aim off, saw him hit the ground and his heart stopped. All of his ingrained training, telling him to go after Root, to stop her _permanently_ , was overruled by the all-consuming need to get to Finch.

The other man was on the ground, not moving, and John didn't breathe again until he was on his knees next to him,

"Don't move, _don't move_."

He ran shaking hands over Finch's chest, unbuttoning his waistcoat, checking for wounds, relief crashing over him when he found none.

"Am I hit?"

"Don't think so."

Finch sounded dazed, his body sagging against John's as he helped him to his feet. Drugged. John's anger was seething, the cold blooded killer within urging him to hunt Root down. Instead he curled protectively around Finch, one hand under his arm, holding him up, and, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, they made for the station exit.

"Sorry it took so long." It was a woefully inadequate apology for how badly he'd fucked up. But Finch only sighed,

"I really didn't intend for you to come and find me, Mr. Reese."

John had figured it out, but he still raged in denial at Finch's words; the reproach in them not quite hiding the gratefulness he felt nonetheless. Finch didn't care about himself, he cared about the numbers. He cared about John putting his life on the line for what he saw as an unacceptable risk. But, as John had told the Machine, he wasn't doing this without Finch.

"Well, you saved my life once or twice, Harold. Seemed only fair I return the favour."

Finch hummed in acknowledgement; John heard the strain in that small noise just as surely as Finch's pronounced limp showed how exhausted he was. His hand moved to grasp John's where it was hooked under his arm.

"I suppose that _is_ what we do, isn't it?"

That droll tone of voice pulled a smirk out of John, and the tightness he'd been carrying in his chest dissipated. Finch was here, slightly worse for wear, but whole and breathing and sounding like himself.

"Something amusing, Mr. Reese?"

"Just missed your voice, Finch."


End file.
